


Isle of Wolves

by Eione



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Characters forced to have sex as entertainment of third party, Death by LACE, Forced Mental Bond, Forced Orgasm, Loyalty, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Public Rape, Sauron made them do it, Spit As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-11-29 17:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11445489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eione/pseuds/Eione
Summary: In Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Sauron forces Beren to rape Finrod for his amusement with an audience of Orcs looking on. Finrod experiences an involuntary mental bond from the rape and feels Beren's physical pleasure as his own.





	Isle of Wolves

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this, recipient! Your prompt was a lot of fun to write for.
> 
> Thanks to Prinzenhasserin for beta-reading.

There were only two of them left, Finrod and Beren, when Sauron had them dragged from their prison and shoved to their knees before him in his throne room. Sauron’s throne room—once it had been Finrod’s hall of feasting, when this was the watch-tower of Minas Tirith, but Sauron had turned it into a place of horror.

Sauron watched them from a monstrous throne of black marble, a lit brazier on either side. Orcs stood all around, armed and armored, some holding torches. Even that red flickering light seemed very bright to Finrod’s eyes, after so much time in complete darkness. Two werewolves crouched at Sauron’s feet, fell spirits in wolf shape; their movements were wolf-like enough, but their eyes were burning with an intelligence and cruelty not found in animals that only killed to live.

The stone floor was cold under Finrod’s knees. They had been stripped naked before being chained in the dark pit, their flesh laid bare to the teeth of the wolves that would soon destroy their companions. But Sauron still did not know their purpose or their names, and Finrod would keep the knowledge from him if he could.

“Do you still dare to resist me?” Sauron spoke from his dark throne. “Tell me what I wish to know, and you will live. If you refuse—my patience is at an end.” He fixed his burning gaze on each of them in turn. To Beren, he said, “You see where your loyalty to the Eldar has brought you. Forsake him, and I can give you rewards such as you have never dreamed of. But stubbornness will earn you only death.” Beren remained silent, giving him a look of defiance.

Sauron turned to Finrod. “This is the last moment for mercy. What is your name? Your purpose in coming here?” Finrod too remained silent.

Sauron leaned back on his throne, with a cruel smile. “As you wish,” he said. “If you are not useful to me in one way, you will serve me in another.” One of his wolves nosed at his hand, and Sauron tossed it a bloody scrap of meat. A brief scuffle followed, as the other wolf tried to snatch it away.

Sauron ignored the scuffling and snarling. The wolves’ red teeth, bared in the firelight, reminded Finrod vividly of the deaths of his companions. “I intend,” Sauron said, “to observe the physical and spiritual reactions of Men and Eldar under certain conditions. To put it in terms you will understand: you, mortal, will penetrate his flesh and fuck him until you reach orgasm.”

Finrod went still. He had no doubt that Sauron knew this about the nature of the Eldar: that one so forced would die of it, the bond between body and spirit severed by the violation. A single glance at Beren confirmed that Beren did not. Finrod felt a flash of helpless anger. He had expected to die here, but it was another thing to make Beren the unwitting instrument of his death.

Beren gave Sauron a look of outraged defiance. “I won’t do it,” he said.

“You will,” Sauron said. The wolves had settled down again, and Sauron’s hand stroked one shaggy head. “Or I will try a different set of observations. Have him raped by my Orcs until he dies—or longer; Orcs are not very discriminating. And then you, though mortals don’t endure such treatment long enough for it to be of any interest. Perhaps I should have you both castrated first and throw the meat to my wolves.”

The crowd of Orcs laughed and jeered, calling out obscene comments. Beren was looking horrified and furious. “My lord,” he said to Finrod in a low tone.

“Choose,” Sauron said indifferently. “You fuck him, or the Orcs do.”

Beren was shaking his head. “I can’t,” he said, “I won’t do such a thing.”

Sauron glanced down at Finrod. “What say you, Elf? Do you prefer the touch of the Orcs? Perhaps the mortal will change his mind, if you beg him.”

Finrod met Beren’s eyes, trying to project reassurance. He was still Beren’s lord and friend, oath-sworn to protect him. He would protect Beren in this, as much as he could. “Please,” he said. “My friend, please do this.” Beren shook his head again, but Finrod persisted. “You must,” he said, “or it will be a certain and shameful death for both of us. We will endure this, and you will live to see your beloved again.” A mistake, he realized immediately; Finrod had said only that Beren would live, not that they both would. But Beren, lost in thoughts of Lúthien, did not notice the slip.

Beren hesitated. “Please,” Finrod said again. “I beg you.”

“He begs you,” Sauron echoed, his voice smoothly mocking. “Will you deny him what he is so eager for?” The Orcs responded with harsh laughter.

At Sauron’s gesture, their manacles were unlocked. Beren sprang to his feet as soon as he was free, looking about him as if he would fight all the Orcs at once.

Finrod stood more slowly. He too considered it; to seize a weapon and cut down as many as he could. But he did not think he could reach Sauron before the Orcs got in the way, and Beren would surely die. He forced his muscles to relax again. Sauron gave a slow scornful smile, as if he could read Finrod’s thought.

Finrod put his hand on Beren’s shoulder and drew him closer.

Beren leaned toward him, as if seeking shelter. “You truly bid me to do this, my lord?”

“I do,” Finrod said firmly.

Beren swallowed. “But I can’t,” he said in a small voice. “I mean—” He glanced downward. “My flesh won’t rise to it, my lord, even if I agree. Not here, like this, with Gorthaur and his Orcs looking on—”

“Let me attend to that,” Finrod said, as reassuringly as he could. He dropped to his knees before Beren.

Beren’s eyes widened as he realized what Finrod intended. “My lord—no—”

Finrod placed his hands on Beren’s thighs and leaned forward to lick at his limp cock. Beren tensed. Finrod stroked his thighs gently, as one would soothe a nervous horse.

Sauron’s mocking laughter broke the silence of the room. “This is better than I expected. A proud lord of the Eldar, kneeling down before a mortal man—to service him? You must value him highly indeed.”

Beren made a slight movement, turning to glare at Sauron.

“Ignore him,” Finrod said. “He is nothing: a petty voice in the darkness, one who can mock and destroy but never create. Look only at me—think only of me! Trust me in this, and I will lead you through this darkness.”

Beren gave a weak laugh. “I have always trusted you, my lord.”

Softly, Finrod began to sing. He did not have much strength to spare, and power was limited, here under the weight of Sauron’s malice. But he had built this fortress, carved some of the stones with his own hands, and it knew him; Sauron could not wholly take that knowledge from the land and the stone around them. Finrod thought of Dorthonion, as he had known it in happier times, and put that memory into his song: a hint of a fresh breeze blowing away the close air and stink of the dungeon, the scent of pines, the rustling of leaves and the lapping of water in Tarn Aeluin. Finrod could give only an echo of those things, not a full illusion, but Beren sighed and Finrod felt some of the tension leave his body. Finrod continued to gently stroke Beren’s hips and thighs. This time, when Finrod reached for Beren’s cock, Beren did not protest.

Finrod gave Beren’s cock a few experimental strokes and then leaned forward to lick at him again until Beren’s cock stirred. Finrod took the head in his mouth and began to suck with earnest attention. The practical attempt was new to him, but the theory was clear enough. With a faint sense of triumph, he felt Beren’s cock begin to harden, swelling and thickening on his tongue. Encouraged, Finrod took in as much of Beren’s cock as he could, until he choked and had to draw back a little.

Beren’s breathing sped up, and when Finrod glanced up at him, his eyes were wide. “My lord,” Beren said hoarsely, “if you knew how you look right now . . .”

Finrod smiled and increased his efforts, sucking and licking at Beren’s growing erection. The Orcs laughed and jeered, but Finrod paid them no heed. He ceased only when Beren was fully hard and panting for breath, his lips parted and his eyes half-closed. He sat back on his heels, admiring the effect, Beren’s cock glistening and wet with Finrod’s spit. Finrod caught Beren’s hips and gently pulled him down to lie on the floor beside him. No use expecting that Sauron would give them anything to lie on; he would have them mate on the bare floor like animals.

Beren hesitated. “My lord,” he said, “I haven’t done this before. But there wasn’t a lot of privacy when we were all camped together, and when some of the men would—”

“Is there some custom that your people observe?” Finrod asked curiously.

Beren gave a despairing laugh. “Not a custom, lord. Only, I’m told it hurts if you don’t use oil or something to—” He gestured. “And if you don’t have oil, you can use spit, in a pinch.”

“Touching as this is,” Sauron’s voice cut in, “I ordered you to penetrate him. If you need an anatomy lesson, I will let one of my Orcs have him first.” The Orcs were growing impatient, calling out in a babble of voices. _Fuck the Elf! Do it, or can’t you find his hole? Give him to me, I’ll split him open for you, I’ll give him some of this—_

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Beren said frantically, and spat in his hand.

At a nudge from Beren, Finrod raised one leg with his knee bent, and a moment later he felt Beren’s wet fingers pressing against his hole. He tensed, then forced himself to relax.

“This part should go more slowly, my lord, I’m sorry,” Beren babbled.

“It will do well enough,” Finrod assured him, and let Beren make what preparations he wished with spit and his fingers. The Orcs were jeering again, urging him on. _Open him up, the Elvish slut, see how he takes it—_ Finrod let their words wash over him and concentrated instead on the new sensations of Beren’s fingers stretching him open.

Beren pulled Finrod close so that they both lay on their side, Beren’s front pressed against Finrod’s back. “How I hate them,” Beren whispered.

“Don’t think of them,” Finrod said quietly. “Be here with me—only with me.”

Beren buried his face in Finrod’s hair and let out a shuddering breath. He parted the cleft of Finrod’s buttocks with one hand, and then Beren’s cock pushed slowly into him, thicker and longer than his fingers had been. The intrusion was strange but not truly painful. And this was Beren, who he trusted utterly.

And then—joined in the flesh as they were, his spirit reached out without his will and tried to join itself to Beren’s, as if it were a match made in love, freely chosen, rather than something forced upon them both. It was painful, like hitting a wall, or a bird beating its wings against a pane of crystal; his spirit sought to join and could not, tried again and failed. Beren was already bound in love to Lúthien, and Finrod too was pledged. Finrod made a desperate effort, and his spirit ceased its vain attempts, though there would surely be a cost for it later. But he could not keep their forced intimacy from extending to the mind as well; he could feel his skin under Beren’s hands at the same time that he could feel them touch him. It was a violation harder to bear than the physical one. There was no escaping it: Finrod could feel how good it felt for Beren’s cock to be sheathed in his body, hot and tight around him, as well as Beren’s shame in finding pleasure in it.

“My lord?” Beren said hesitantly.

Beren was mortal; Finrod could stop the connection from going the other way, shield what he felt from Beren. “Don’t stop,” he said hoarsely. “Keep going. I want you to.” Better for this to be over quickly, before Finrod’s strength failed and he could no longer conceal from Beren what was happening.

Beren began to move inside him, and the forced connection only strengthened. Beren’s shame and anger and distress and unwilling arousal; the slide of Beren’s cock drawing back, the push into him, his own body clenching around it; the weight of Beren’s body, their skin pressing together, slick with sweat—it all blurred together until he was dizzy, could not tell whose pleasure throbbed through his flesh.  His mind rejected it, but his body wanted it, eager and desperate. He had not known this would happen. Finrod trembled in Beren’s arms and felt his own cock swelling and rising between his legs. A small groan escaped him.

Beren stilled. “I’m not hurting you?”

Finrod shook his head. He thought he could have borne pain more easily than this. The Orcs were laughing harshly, and Sauron was still watching them from his high throne. A flash of shame and anger went through him, that Sauron and his Orcs should see him like this, hard and wanting. He tried to find some escape from the flood of sensations by focusing on the discomfort of the hard stone floor under him, but he was quickly pulled back into the unwelcome bond. Finrod could feel it all: Beren’s hard hot flesh that pressed deep into him and pierced him, the base animal instinct in Beren’s body that urged him to thrust until he was satisfied, and the effort it took to remain still. There was no way out but to finish it. “Don’t stop,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t stop, Beren, my Bëor, my faithful one.” He reached back blindly to stroke along Beren’s flanks. “Fuck me, my Beren, please.”

Beren made a choked sound and obeyed. Again there was the feeling of Beren’s hard cock moving within him, forcing him open with every stroke, the flash of hot pleasure Beren felt each time he thrust into Finrod’s yielding flesh, their bodies sliding against each other. The same heat that pulsed in Beren’s blood quickened Finrod’s heartbeat until it pounded in the same rhythm. The same ache of desire spread through him; he felt every place where his skin touched Beren’s along their joined bodies with doubled sensation, a pleasure almost painful in its intensity. His skin tingled, and warmth spread throughout his entire body.

Finrod forced his eyes open, though he didn’t remember closing them. His chest rose and fell as his breath came in quick gasps. His own cock was flushed and jutting upward, beaded with drops of moisture at the tip. He had never seen himself like this, eager and desperately wanton, and he felt a new stirring of desire at the sight. His body shifted involuntarily; his head fell back and his legs spread wider, opening to welcome the thrusts of Beren’s cock. Even the Orcs’ mocking encouragements and the knowledge of Sauron’s eyes on him could not stop his body’s response.

Beren’s breathing was harsh in his ears; Finrod could feel Beren’s pleasure mounting, could feel his own body’s answering desire as every thrust sent pleasure sparking through him with increasing urgency. At last Beren gripped him tightly, his fingers digging into Finrod’s chest, gave one more thrust, and went still. It was as if a great wave struck him, knocking him off his feet and spinning him about with a force too great to resist. Hot pleasure shot through him; he convulsed and shook in Beren’s arms while his own cock thrust against air and his seed spilled out of him like hot blood gushing from a wound.

Finrod lay still, dazed and recovering his breath. All control had slipped away from him; his spirit tried once more to join with Beren’s and again was thrown back, like a boat shattered against a cliff by that same wave. Though his body still felt a pleasant lassitude, his spirit was filled with a tearing pain. Finrod closed his eyes, bracing himself to endure it. It was comforting then to have Beren’s warmth against his back and Beren’s arms around him.

A moment later, rough hands pulled them apart, and Orcs hauled them to their knees. Sauron gave a cruel smile. “Who knew the Eldar were so hungry for mortal cock? You weren’t lying when you begged him to defile you. I can see how much you enjoyed it.” Finrod remained silent, though he could sense Beren bristling beside him. He knew how he must look, disheveled and covered in sweat, with Beren’s seed and his own dripping down his thighs.

Sauron gave Beren a dismissive glance. “Beren, was it? I have all I need from you now. Your family’s boasted valor and loyalty will end here, with your corpse tossed in a dark hole to rot. Your people will never know your fate, and you will be utterly forgotten.” His words went through Finrod like a spear of ice. He had done this, he realized in sudden horror, speaking Beren’s name aloud in his distraction. If Beren was now to die for it—

“And you . . . if you tell me your name, it might save some trouble. No? No matter, I will display your corpse when next I march against the Eldar, and I will learn what name they use to mourn you.” Sauron gestured to the Orcs holding them. “Throw them back into their pit.”

The Orcs dragged them away. Finrod stumbled when he tried to walk, and his captors had to half-carry him. He was well enough in body, but the wound in his spirit dragged him down. Beren tried to reach out to him, but winced as the Orc wrenched his arms painfully behind his back.

Finrod was almost glad when the Orcs chained them again and left them, taking the torches with them. In the dark, it would be easier to hide his weakness from Beren. His life was draining away like water from a shattered pitcher. Beren called his name, but he did not have the strength to answer. He drifted in the dark, grimly clinging to consciousness.

Beren was calling to him more urgently, and Finrod’s eyes snapped open again. Something moved close beside them in the darkness; two burning eyes, a wolf’s growl.  Finrod tensed. As he feared, the eyes moved toward Beren.

“Farewell, my lord,” Beren said quietly.

Finrod lifted his head, with a great effort, and smiled fiercely in the dark. He knew he was dying, but now his death would serve a purpose. He called on the power of Minas Tirith one last time: trust unbroken, strength like a tower. A surge of new energy filled him; not much, but it would be enough. His bonds snapped, and he flung himself upon the wolf.


End file.
